


Shell

by May



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Breathplay, F/F, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your anatomy, as finely crafted as it is, is still synthetic. You don’t really mind – it’s not like you’re really craving the touch. Time moves like flipping the pages of a book and you don’t find it advantageous to mourn what you could be doing instead of what you are doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shell

**Author's Note:**

> Note for non-consensual choking and attempted mind control.

She groans and you’ve got no nerves to feel yourself inside her. Your anatomy, as finely crafted as it is, is still synthetic. You don’t really mind – it’s not like you’re really craving the touch. Time moves like flipping the pages of a book and you don’t find it advantageous to mourn what you could be doing instead of what you are doing.

You shift your metal fingers along her thighs and pry them open just a little further. Her bulge wriggles against her stomach, which almost sits concave as she arches her spine a little in her movement.

“Fucking hurry up, Aradia,” she breathes and you – not gently - press yourself into her as far as you can go. The movement of your bulge has a perpetual motion and you think that it’s probably the very best that you could have. She gives a squirm up from the hips and you clamp down on those, just on the bone ridges. Your fingers will leave bruises behind but all she does is continue to writhe awkwardly in your hands. She gives a shrill, high pitched whine and you slow to a stop, your bulge gone still in her nook. Your grip is unyielding and it seems to surprise her that she can’t twist out of it enough to grab the satisfaction that she wants.

In this body, that amuses you quite enough.

As it is, all you can do is wait until she stops and breathes deeply.  “Aradia…” she gets out, between breaths. She seems to roll the next word around her pan for a while before saying it. “Please.”

You tilt your head and you don’t feel the shift of your hair or the weight of your horns. You don’t oblige her either, and, instead, you pull out, though you don’t retract your bulge back into your shell. Vriska lets out a cry of frustration that you think is almost pathetic and lays there, limbs splayed, her nook empty and stretched from your bulge.

You lean forward and grab her just beneath her ribcage. She hisses at the touch, and you know that you’re coming close to breaking the skin, but you won’t. You’ll just fall short of drawing her blood. You pull her forward towards you and she lets out a growl and you note the way her limbs trail and the way that her hair billows as you move her. She gives a flail, though not an invested one.

You pull her to you until she’s flush against you and you let her feel the smooth, metallic curve of your chest against her breasts and, as her legs fit themselves around you, the bolstered edges of your sides between her thighs. She shivers at the contact, and her bulge squirms against you, leaving a trail of blue against your metal shell. Your grip still clamps around her middle, and she’s positioned on the very tip of your bulge. She tries to wriggle, to grind down, but you hold her still.

She quivers, and gives a growl baring her teeth at you. You give her a flash of yours, cold, metal, but she resists and stays growling and trembling, like she thinks you’re somehow going to be cowed, even at this point. You won’t, obviously and all you do is hold her firmer still, and you know the perfect tip of your bulge just breaches the entrance to her nook, where she’s open to take it and needs to again, so very much.

Her growl is sharp along the edges and gives a quick, warbling rumble underneath. As one might expect, it’s not a bad growl, though you give a machine whirr in response. This makes her stutter in her growling, just a little, and you know it’s because the fact that you’re not quite troll like you were sits weirdly at the back of her pan. Perhaps, though, she is not aware that it’s there so, mostly, she doesn’t falter.

Her spindly fingers scrabble at your shoulders as the noise she makes curls and rumbles. You shift your arms so that one is around her back holding her in place, and you drift the other one across her hip and thigh to let her bulge twine with your fingers. She hisses as the surface of her bulge trails and wriggles over the hinges of your hands. It looks semi-translucent and vulnerable against your metal digits, though it doesn’t twitch away and try and retreat back inside of her.

A whine rises from behind her growl, but you don’t pull your hand away. Perhaps it’s amusing that you don’t really have to do anything, just sit there and be unwavering. You’re still pushing her to the edge and she’s never any closer to being able to spill any of her fluid.

After a while, she stills and grows tense, the ridge of her jaw a solid line and you know what she’s trying to do. She never used to bother, after a while, because it never really worked on you. She always put it down to some bizarre quirk of yours, like you were purposefully weird, as a lowblood, to have any will whatsoever. Now you are neither lowblood nor troll, really - but it seems as if she’s clawing at the edges of desperation enough to try, anyway.

Of course, it still doesn’t work and, in order to prove this, you withdraw your hand from her bulge and bring it up to clamp your fingers around her throat. It’s just enough to restrict her air, though you won’t kill her this time, anyway. She gasps, and you catch a sharp, murderous glare from her. But nothing has more tranquil fury than the dull red glow of your robotic stare. The nastiest of trolls could only hope to have this kind of machine cruelty. He would tell you it’s your blue blood, elevating you to the Nobility of the Blue-Blooded. But you’re colder than flesh, now, whatever the shade of your blood.

Her whine is thin and wheezing, now, and her growl bubbles in her throat beneath your grip. But it’s not enough to do any damage, and you won’t kill her. You look at the skin of her neck as it dips under the pressure of your fingertips, pliable and flushed blue. She whimpers, suddenly, though this is killed hard by her teeth digging into her bottom lip. She pulls at your fingers with both hands and almost succeeds in dragging them away, but not quite.

She still presses at the front of your synthetic cortex, frantically, and you respond by tightening your grip. Her eyes swell a little, and you catch the sclera begin to vein with red. You know, from some new reservoir of information in your electronic pan, that asphyxiation can exacerbate arousal. The information pops up like a helpful command from one of Sollux’s bee networks and you don’t stop it. She wriggles, away and downwards, though you hold her still enough that she can’t move much.

Finally, you let her go, leaving her gasping, gritting her teeth. Her thighs tighten around you and she shoves herself down with a grunt. You don’t have to hold her up, anymore, so you let your arms drop to your sides as she grabs your horns and fucks herself to release on your bulge. There isn’t much else she can do, right now, you guess, for as long as she needs to release her fluid.

She’s pulling on your horns in a way that should hurt at the sensitive bases but, obviously, you don’t feel anything, so you just stare at her in blank red and pin-prick orange as she continues.

She finishes on a growl, and cerulean drips over your bulge and down between her legs. She peels herself off of you before you retract it, and her own has gone slack, slipping back inside her. She turns away from you, retiring to the pile and slumping on top of it.

You don’t bother standing and watching and you leave, your metal body removing all traces of her fluid. Obviously, you don’t have any of your own – no burgundy or cobalt blue stains her thighs. You wonder if you ever would have liked that.


End file.
